An Old Man's Tale
by Bamir
Summary: An old adventurer looks back over his life. From his humble beginnings as the son of a Commonlands Innkeeper to his days adventuring with the most revered mercernaries of our time. More to come very soonPlease R & R
1. Chapter One

This is my first attempt at writing a story set within the Everquest game world of Norrath so please be gentle with me. I know the chapters are kind of short but that's due to me intending to write little and often. I'll amalgamate them, as I get a little further in. Also, Sony Online Entertainment Ltd owns the setting and all related place names etc.  
  
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Ever since I can remember I wanted to study at the famous Academy of Arcane Science in Freeport.  
  
That's not really true but it's how these stories are supposed to begin. I can pinpoint, to the day, the moment I first took an interest in the magical arts that were to become my calling. My Calling and, as I often think of it, my curse.  
  
I was born and raised in one of the many villages that dot the Commonlands. A vast expanse of arable land, west of Freeport. My parents were simple folk who ran the Inn in the village square. Unlike many of my later companions, the ones you may have heard tales about, I had no real legacy to live up to. In fact I think the most adventurous thing my father ever did was water down the ale when a party of thirsty dwarves from Kaladim was in town. Not that I'm disparaging him or my mother. They were good people who lived worthwhile lives. They were comfortably off, as is to be expected from the keepers of the only Inn for fifty miles in any direction and I had a happy childhood.  
  
Being raised in the Commonlands breeds a natural curiosity in all but the meekest of children. Straying from the safety of the villages is forbidden for youngsters by order of the town fathers, of which my father was one. The lands beyond the outer gates are wild and untamed, filled with a large roaming population of fearsome creatures. The Orcs of Clan Deathfist also make their homes to the north of the Commonlands, Close to the evil citadel that is Neriak, where the dark-elves and, more recently, also the trolls make their home. Of course, all this exerts a terrible fascination for the children of the villages and regular attempts were made to sneak past the guards and to explore a little of the surrounding countryside. On those occasions when we managed to break free (feast days when the guards were sleepy with mead were always good) we would make our way to the top of the large hill that bordered our village and just sit staring into the distance. Sometimes someone would brag that they could make out the lights of Freeport off in the distance or that they spied a party of dark-elf scouts moving stealthily across the plains. All nonsense of course but enough to stir our imaginations and long to see the strange lands we had only heard about from travellers passing through our village.  
  
I digress though and let my mind wander (as men of my age are wont to do). The day I discovered a yearning, and perhaps even an affinity for magic was the day the players came to town.  
  
Every year, at highsummer, for as long as I could remember a troupe of performers had visited the village. They sang songs, performed japes and played games with the children. It was the highpoint of the year and we anticipated it for months. As soon as the last winter snows had left the ground, children could be heard whispering about the players. How long until they were coming? What strange creatures would they bring? To us the performance was as the greatest shows of Freeport or Qeynos. Every year we thought we should explode with the waiting but every year they came again, eventually. Time has a habit of passing slowest towards those things we anticipate the most as my mother used to say to me.  
  
This year though was an unusual one for they brought no animals. We looked and looked, craning our necks to try to catch a glimpse of the cages that normally travelled on a cart behind the performers. But there were none. Not a Spiderling, nor a bixie. Not even a giant rat or two. This year they had with them something (or someone) even more special. This year they had a Magician. 


	2. Chapter Two

Except for the ancient (or so he seemed to us at the time. I am quite certain I have more years now than he at that time by almost double, but such is the perception of youth.) Priest who visited the village once or twice a year to take communion with those of faith, Bryauel was the first practitioner of magic I ever met. I think it fair to say that he was a pretty unique example of the profession. In my long life I've met many great and powerful sorcerers. Some as good and as noble as the holiest paladin, some twisted and evil, rotten to the core. Not one of them has ever impressed me in the way Bryauel did that afternoon  
  
As he swept regally into the village atop his magnificent white charger it was pretty obvious that here was a man who was used to commanding the respect of his fellows. I was totally awestruck. His long flowing white hair and his embroidered robes marked him out as unlike any man who had ever visited our little village before. I was instantly fascinated. The men of our village were a hearty lot. Used to surviving harsh winters and oppressive summers. Strong in the arm and thick in the head a lady I once knew would have called them. They weren't stupid by any means but education has little value to commonlanders who still live off the land and its very bounty in a very real way. The strength emanating from Bryauel that day was as different to the strength of the villagers as night is to day but the intent is the same. To survive and in some small way to control.  
  
Unfortunately someone had already moved to take the reins from Bryauel's grip as he dismounted so I motioned to the leader of the troupe, a well- muscled troubadour name of Guristan, that I would see to his mount instead. Guristan had been touring the players around the Eastern parts of Antonica for over twenty years but still had the looked as a man normally would in his late teens. A testament to his mixed heritage. Whilst he would live less than half the years normally allotted to his elven ancestors on his mother's side, he would outlive most of his human fathers kin by at least double their score. I'd known Guristan all my life and had come to like the flamboyant bard more and more every year. His was not a manner one encountered very often in the Commons, life being harsh and primitive compared to those living in the cities of Freeport and Qeynos. I found his merry ways and constant smile refreshing compared to the dour demeanour of most of my kith and kin.  
  
He followed me as I led his horse towards the common stables used for visitors. I wanted to ask him about the magician. But it seemed somehow improper to do so. As if I would be disrespecting him. So I asked instead about the missing animals. Guristan's eyes twinkled as he glanced sideways at me. "Don't need 'em this year my young friend. There ain't a bird, bear or boar alive can do anything even half as entertaining as our new act can, that's for very certain indeed" He said with a grin. "Happen you'll be wanting a seat on the front row Master Linadin, I think you're going to like the show this year" I smiled back. Of course I was going to like the show, I always did. There was little by way of entertainment to be found in the Commons anyhow. "Anyway. Dragging them stinking cages around for weeks on end got old a long time ago. At least their replacement cleans his own mess" Guristan added, turning away as we reached the stable doors. "Take care of her," he said, nodding over his shoulder at his gray mare, which was looking slightly nervous about entering the dark stable. With that he turned and walked away towards my parents inn. 


	3. Chapter Three

In spite of the fact that the whole troupe of players, including the fascinating Bryauel, were staying at my parents inn I saw no sight of any of them until the day the show was due to commence.  
  
It had been several days since the merry band had arrived and during that time a large stage had been erected in the very centre of the village square. Whilst this was certainly a fact, we could all see and touch it, not a one of the locals was able to explain from where it had come. No one had observed anyone, performer or villager alike, engaged in its construction. In fact the whole affair seemed to have been somehow magicked into our little village. A fact that would be verified to me in confidence later. Fascinated, and a little uneasy, we kicked and prodded at the wooden structure, half expecting our limbs to pass through the timber as if it wasn't there. They didn't of course. The stage was as solid as if it had always been standing there in our little square. In fact, in a very real, metaphysical way it had always been there.  
  
The day of the show dawned clear and bright. In fact, as I remember it, the weather that day was never bettered that year or for several that followed.  
  
I don't really know how to say this, but as plain speaking is one of my more remarked upon traits among those that know me well I guess there's nothing to do but be out with it. I could feel the magic that morning. I woke with a tangible sense of destiny. Something was sure to happen that day and I was to be part of it. Looking back at the last sentence I scribed I can read it as you must. An old man's mind remembering what never happened. Giving foreshadowing to events that are to follow. All the better to make the story flow. As most of you know how the tale goes, at least the bare bones of it, which are common knowledge to all, it would be foolish and vain of me to add tricks for dramatic effect. There are powers that pull and shape even the most mundane of lives. It is my belief that I was marked by the Gods for what was to follow. And if that adds the sin of arrogance to the list then so be it.  
  
The show was to commence at noon and would last, as always, until well after midnight. Bards would sing ballads of long ago times and faraway places. Girls would dance to the tunes played by minstrels and the village men-folk would wrestle the group's resident ogre to try to win the cash prize that was offered. Or more accurately they would wrestle the ogre (a kindly, but still remarkably large, example of his species know as Grud, who had travelled with the band for as long as I could remember) hoping to win the notice of some of the villages female residents. To the best of my knowledge Grud retired undefeated some twenty years later. He settled down with a female from a village not far from mine. Obviously unimpressed by the scores of young men who attempted to catch her eye, she'd made eyes at the victor.  
  
The main act would appear after dark. This being mid summer it was always very late before dark fell. One other reason the children looked forward to this festival, more than any other feast day was that staying up late was not just allowed. It was mandatory. The main act was such a significant event that people would talk about it for months afterwards and missing it was impossible to countenance.  
  
For the first time (and as it turned out the last time) I was to be helping my parents behind the makeshift bar that they erected every year, in front of the inn proper, to serve foaming ale and steaming plates of food to the hungry revellers, both locals and performers alike. My father once told me that he took as much money on the day of the performance as he did the rest of the year combined. I had turned sixteen during the previous spring. The age when Commonlands traditions dictate that the boy becomes a man so my days that year were filled not with sneaking past the guards out into the wilderness or playing games in the street with my friends. But with learning to run an inn. From what little I remember, I was learning fast. I had always been good at figures so the money side was no problem. My mother took care of the cleaning, both of the common room and of the guest rooms leaving my father to teach me a little of what he knew about ales and spirits. He stocked all manner of victuals from all over the world. From the darkest Blackburrow stout to the most delicate of elven wines from far away Felwithe, it could truly be said that my fathers inn offered a choice that couldn't be matched in all the Commonlands. He bargained with passing merchants for these rare and exotic (at least to commonlanders) drinks. Many regular visitors knew that when passing through our village the surest way of guaranteeing a bed for the night and breakfast the following morning was to arrive with a barrel or two for my father. Soon after dawn, my father and I were out front of the inn, tapping barrels and wiping the dust from bottles lain away in the cellar for just this day, when Bryauel came walking around the corner, making for the stage. Nudging me, my father whispered in my ear "Here Lin, looks like Master Bryauel weren't keen on stopping in his own room last night". The magician, at considerable expense, had a room of his own in the inn. The rest of the troupe, including Guristan, was staying six or seven to a room. They were always out and about, requesting no breakfast, by the time we rose so we paid them no mind. In my experience bards, minstrels, troubadours and the like are friendly enough folk but fonder of their own company offstage than that of others. I glanced at my father and noticed a hint of a leer in his eyes, as his mind obviously played out some salacious scene involving Bryauel and one of the local widows. I don't know why it bothered me that he was thinking these things but before I knew it the blood began to rise and I found myself glaring openly at him. 


	4. Chapter Four

Gossip and scandalous rumour was my father's stock in trade. An Innkeeper without a story or two involving the local residents is an innkeeper with an empty common room. I knew this. Hell I was training to be an innkeeper myself. More than once I'd been the one sharing some juicy titbit or other with my father.  
  
But somehow this was different. I was enraged. That my father could impugn the honour and reputation (although for all I knew he could have been a whoremonger or a wastrel) of the magnificent Magician was not only outrageous it was tantamount to blasphemy.  
  
Without questioning why I was defending a man I'd never met I raised my fists to strike my father. Who by now was staring at me open-mouthed, having expected a ribald comment or two in return. To his credit my father made no move to block or return the blow. Although I cannot say for certain whether this was self-possession on his part or just outright shock.  
  
As I moved to strike him hard across his jaw, my fist suddenly hit a solid barrier about 6 inches or so short of its intended target. With a yelp I dropped my bruised knuckles back to my waist.  
  
A hand gripped my shoulder from behind and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of the wizard Bryauel. Up close the eyes were dark, the cornea almost black as the pupil. Although there was undoubtedly great power behind those eyes, I sensed something else too. There was a haunted look to them. A look that said to me that this man had seen, in his life, more than he had ever wished to.  
  
"I won't be standing for anything of that sort young master" he spoke. "Certainly not today".  
  
I was speechless. The shock of what I had been about to do had just hit me like a sledgehammer and then to compound the blow, the man I had been defending was rebuking me.  
  
"I'm sorry sir." I managed to stammer out. Bryauel's fingers were starting to hurt my shoulder and he showed no sign of relinquishing his grip.  
  
"And am I right in thinking that this man is your own father?"  
  
Griffins live in great numbers in the mountains surrounding the Commonlands and if one had swooped down and carried me off at that moment I think I would have wept with gratitude.  
  
"He is, sir." I admitted. Tears now rolling down my cheeks. Partially from the pain in my knuckles and my shoulder, but mainly from the shame of what I was about to do. I couldn't bring myself to look at my father. I had been about to strike the man who raised me. The man who had played with me and fed me and soothed me in the night. The man who was training me to follow in his footsteps and would bequeath me the inn he cherished upon his death. 


End file.
